My day of rest weaving complex,

Our breath, arms and legs lingering unease,

Waiting for the hour after we left,

Unfinished work to gain temporary crevasses.

Day of rest from stress and strain,

Wringing from crease clothes bitter water out,

Fallen with the moments pleasure retain,

Weary figure resign to a chosen spot.

Inglorious hard days trampled to an end,

Leaving yesterday dignity in progress,

Unresolved issues of business still retained,

The day of rest will influence all phases.

Rest is like apocalypse to the soul,

The reinvigorate balm of refreshment,

Massage all what we randomly hold,

In fragile hearts peering through addictive intents.

With personal designated interest,

This day we mortals made to other gods,

Our reasonable offering and sacrifice,

Resonate with tired murmur and gasping sobs.

My day of rest is a wonderful Sabbath,

Which fills the air every day with holy flame?

Brightly beams burning brighter in my heart,

With joy, peace, and heaven to gain.

The inner calm anticipated rest foretold,

Men and women in workshops grind to a halt,

The peace they sought is in their soul,

Cloned by desire to go home happily unite.

Afterwards, deeper knowledge we all express,

The cherished mind massages and cleansed,

Sunlight cast its shadow to amend broken interest,

And restful sleep supply breath to all the veins.

My day of rest paused to reconstruct,

The final moments swept up into dust,

And became one day less than perfect,

When the eyes lays dormant without lust.

Learn more about this author, Gerry Legister.
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